Fire and Roses
by StarsAtNight
Summary: "We could set fire to this nation with a spark. After all, the Capitol's already slathered it with petroleum." The story of two hunters and twelve districts with fire in their eyes, rebellion in their hearts and war in their country. Sequel to Shadows.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Here comes Shadows's Sequel! Sorry for the long wait... I had writers block and couldn't write a decent paragraph for days. Anyway, enjoy!

Chapter 1

For some time on that fatal sunrise, there's only the fatigue in my bones, the faint lightening of the moonlit sky and Gale's warmth fending off the pre-winter, post-autumn chill. Then, as the sun starts to rise noticeably, there are trees, barely sheltering us with their long-gone canopies and bare, frosty branches, bleached pale from the cold, and then there comes daylight.

"We need to go now," Gale murmurs into my hair, slowly standing both of us up and brisk-walking me around a tree to bring the blood back into our legs. I wordlessly comply. We've been sitting here throughout the whole night and our legs have long since fallen asleep, while waiting for a dreaded dawn to break.

Today is the first day of the Victory Tour, the day when our victory comes to defeat us.

"It'll be all right," he says when the pins and needles stop, kissing my cheek. "We'll both be there for each other."

That's one thing I know for sure in this world, and it does provide a hint of reassurance.

We return to our two houses in the Victor's Village. Our families inhabit one and both of us the other, where our stylists and prep teams are just pulling up in fancy, sleek Capitol vehicles. We embrace briefly, exchange pleasantries and in we go to the house. Effie, who arrives later and right on the dot, is assigned to pick up Haymitch, who is probably passed out drunk in his own half-abandoned home.

Meanwhile, my prep team chatters happily about mundane matters as they rip the body hair from my skin, draw my eyebrows, and make up my face. I catch snippets of gossip about the Quarter Quell, rumours about celebrities with funny names and novel-length stories about feathery birthday parties, dead wrong fashion choices and the effects of our victory on their reputations. I don't hear anything important or rebellion-related, so I sit back, close my eyes and catch up on a few minutes of dozing.

The Victory Tour lasts about two weeks, including appearances in the Capitol and each district, saving ours for the last. There will be a celebratory dinner held at the mayor's house with some family and friends once we reach our home district, which is

Personally, I'm glad that we will go to the mayor's house, where my friend Madge Undersee, the mayor's daughter, stays. The only other place fit for the event, the Justice Building, is the place where only heartbreak happens, at least for me, and it shan't be the place where this half-happy, but still mildly pleasant, celebration is held.

But our schedule is too hectic to worry about that now.

By the end of the next week, we have been whisked through open fields of golden, ripening crops fit for harvest, vast expanses of green grass where cows and cattle graze and industry after industry, wearing what we're told to, eating what we're told to, doing anything we're told to. When we finally arrive at the sea-scented, well-off place known as District Four, I'm worn out. The balmy breeze comes as a relief from the ocean, bringing with it unfamiliar scents of kelp, sand, fish and salt and a whiff of freedom, even through the half-solid snowflakes that fall here. We pass by communities of flats and apartments, some small, some big, but all accomodating Four's fishermen who look up from their balconies as we pass.

When we stand before their crowd in their square and speak, I feel something more than mild stage fright. It's almost like the people watching us are tigers, crouched in the brush, waiting for the precise moment to pounce, and it sends a chill down my spine that seems too cold to be just the wintry wind. There's fire here, too, something that can't be extinguished by the seawater these people immerse their lives in every day. I voice this out to Gale as soon as we enter Four's Justice Building, and he agrees. So does Haymitch.

"They're waiting for you," our mentor tells us, back in the train after the dinner on the way to District Three. "You are the first real chance they've had since the Dark Days. Once they feel like you've given a signal, they'll strike. And strike hard." There is a dark euphoria in his voice as he says this, and for an instant I see the flame in him too. "There's an opportunity now, and all they have to do is amass in their square and throw live crabs at the Peacekeepers."

Hearing his words, I can already feel the excitement, the ecstasy building in the districts' atmosphere, and it's getting to me quickly. And although I do feel a little frightened, the outlines of plans begin to form in my head. I had felt fires in 8 and 11, too. There was desire in more than one districts, and where there's a will, there's a way.

"We'll wait and see, now," Haymitch continues. "We could set fire to this nation with a spark. After all, the Capitol's already slathered it with petroleum."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hey again. This is Chapter Two, and I'd like to warn that I won't be updating as often anymore, since I'm trying to do more of my schoolwork. And I haven't put a disclaimer for the first chapter, so I'll put it here. Anyway, enjoy!

Disclaimer: This disclaimer applies to all chapters. I do not own the Hunger Games, because if I did, then I wouldn't even be here, and I never want to not be here.

* * *

Chapter 2

The air circulation in the Capitol Training Centre is poorer than before - I keep finding myself choking on the steamy mid-shower air, constantly gasping for oxygen until my lungs and throat hurt.

But there isn't any left, not after I saw what happened in District Three, just two or three days ago.

Peacekeepers in freshly-pressed, snow-white (Snow-white?) uniforms marched in perfect formation behind their leaders, some of them overseeing the crowds from machine-gun nests on the roofs of government buildings. Watching every twitch and blink. Shooting dead anyone who made a wrong move – even a child who, in her rebellious thoughtlessness and innocence, wrote the President's name on a scrap of paper and tore it up.

The Peacekeepers are like the trees I climb at home. One false step – one mistake – and down you go, falling to the forest floor, and then you limp home with a twisted ankle or sprained arm. But here, the Peacekeepers shoot you in the head, and there's no getting up and going back home. It's just laying there until they retrieve your body and cremate you.

The water from the showerhead is too hot. It burns my skin, and the rosy scent of the soap is suddenly overwhelmingly, nauseatingly strong. I hiss and scream, fighting my way out of the posh Capitol bathroom, my hair still bubbly with shampoo and my body still lathered with bath gel. Soapy water drips into a pool around my feet on the hardwood floorboards, but I can't bring myself to care.

I stumble across the room and wrestle open the windows, throwing the soft beige curtains aside and taking deep breaths of the wintry air. Downstairs, I can hear Gale, Effie and Haymitch calling out to me – Gale the most – but I ignore them. I just need a few minutes to calm down. As Rory says, _chill_...

When I've finally cooled down, I go back into the shower and wash off the soap, braid my hair and dress in the gown that Cinna laid out for me. I vaguely register that it's pretty, but my foggy mind can't think of why. Does it really matter, now? Do clothes really earn themselves a place in my worries?

I think not.

I make my way down the spiral staircase and into the lobby of the Justice Building where my escort, mentor and lover await my arrival. They sigh in relief when they see me – I guess maybe they thought I fainted in the bath or something like that.

"There you are," Effie says in her usual, over-enthusiastic manner, and promptly ushers us into formation, walks us up and down the lengthy marble-clad hallway, and lectures all of us on walking, moving, smiling and schedules. She forces us to practise and rehearse until we get it all just right for five times in a row, just to make sure, and then she sits us down and gets us water to drink.

Before the dinner tonight, we have to make a speech regarding our victory, with prompts from our faithful interviewer, Caesar Flickerman. It's always supposed to be unscripted, but every year the victors, their mentors and escorts write one out. For us, Effie did most of the work, and Haymitch, Gale and I just made slight modifications here and there. Not that I mind.

Gale intends to put in an unscripted rebellious implication again, just for the fun of it, and to maybe set another few districts on fire. I gladly approve – what could be better at this point? The Capitol isn't fireproof, and although that is their only weakness, our inferno is our only strength, and that is what we will use.

By nightfall, we are gathered in a small circle in the lobby of President Snow's mansion. Effie forces us to rehearse one more time and then pushes us into formation. I can hear Caesar speaking, warming up the crowd, talking about everything from how extraordinary our victory is to Effie's 'splendid' choice of fashion this year. He even introduces them to the fountain of rice wine in the corner, referring to it as 'Haymitch wine', since that's the kind of liquor our mentor drinks. His audience laughs and raves to each other about similar matters and when I hear glasses clinking, I suspect they've given a toast, probably of rice wine.

Then he introduces us. Effie waves us on and one after another, we step out onto the stage, blinking against the bright light and smiling with as much dignity and joy as we can muster.

This year, Caesar's hair is dyed lavender, and so are his eyelids and lips. He applauds with the audience when Gale and I emerge, arms linked and smiling like the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. I don't know the story well, but my father used to tell it to me at bedtime, saying that it's a very old fairytale but that it's still fairly popular. I remember liking Alice because she was adventurous like me, and Prim loved the grinning Cheshire Cat. It leads me to believe that she loves and adopted Buttercup because of her preference for the character, even though the resemblance is almost nonexistent.

We keep up the smiling until Caesar introduces us, sits us down on a plush leather loveseat and begins the interview/speech. Closer to him, I can just catch hints of grey at the roots of his lavender hair, the slight shadows under his eyes that even the thick makeup cannot conceal. He looks tired and stressed; almost like he's got the weight of a war on his midnight-blue clad shoulders, too.

But on the questions and scripted actions flow, and his flawless professionalism is as smooth as usual. At one point, he asks about our daily routine back home, and Gale says that we like to go to the edge of the fence at the Meadow and watch the birds sing in the trees beyond. He tells Caesar that I would sing to the mockingjays and they would sing back, and how I remind him so much of them.

"She's like a mockingjay," he says confidently, and I can almost see President Snow flinch at the mention of the bird who showed up the Capitol. He leans down and presses his lips to my hairline. "Surviving against all odds. Refusing to just be another teenager in Panem. Even when those odds were never in her favour." He wraps one arm protectively around my waist. "Just like a mockingjay."

He glances meaningfully down at me, and I turn to Caesar before the rebellious hint sinks in too much, quickly adding something cheery to ease the building tension. "I tell him he is too, but he won't believe me," I say lightheartedly, and it works, at least for this crowd.

Caesar laughs good-naturedly, quickly skipping over and ignoring the hints of retribution. "Ah. Mockingjays. Our Katniss Everdeen looks like she does have a beautiful voice, just like that songbird." Then he pauses, as if he's made a mistake, and looks Gale right in the eyes. "Or are you intending to make her a Hawthorne, now?"

Gale smiles. "It's something to think about."

The renewed ease on his face tells me that the prompts for the districts are over, and that our job is done for the evening. Now all we have to do is enjoy the food, music and dancing, and show how two bony things from District 12 can actually revel in the Capitol's wrath.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N:

Hello again. I didn't get writer's block again for this chapter, so I hope it'll be a little better than the others. I wrote three completely different drafts for this, but in the end I managed to piece the second and the third together, and that's good, because sometimes, if I write too long a piece in too short a time, my mind just goes blank. I did the first part of it as a pointless few paragraphs because I wanted to express my perspective of Johanna's appearance in words, but then I decided to put it in, since I don't like pointless things lying around my computer that I can't bear to delete, and yes, I'm extremely sentimental sometimes.

Also, I'd like to announce that I will be changing the story title to 'Fire and Roses'.

And now, before I procrastinate further, here is Chapter Three. Enjoy!

Chapter Three

The axe flies into the wall of the ladies' bathroom, missing my head by an inch, and a long, lean figure steps out of nowhere.

She has long brown hair, the pretty colour caught up somewhere too light to be dark and too dark to be light, and wide, matching eyes framed with thick lashes. Her face is chiselled and her skin is a rich honey-tan colour. She has a slightly pointed chin, and the fingers she wraps around her second axe are lengthy and tapered. The floor-length black gown she wears, sporting tiny, sparkling diamonds around the slightly low neckline, is fitted on her torso and drapes around her legs from the waist down, giving her a strangely natural beauty not many can achieve.

"Hey there," Johanna Mason of District 7 says, stepping up beside me. "How's 12 going? Are they all excited for you like my district is?" She gives me a quick once-over and nods in grudging approval, taking in the uniquely-Cinna designed gown and the perfect makeup that makes me seem far more beautiful than I am. "They're chopping trees like hell back home, mockingjay girl. Your speeches and tragic romance thingies make them work as fast as if they're running from a forest fire. Productivity has increased in District 7."

"Good," I reply casually. "Just the way we want."

"Damn right," Johanna says. "Our performance wasn't exactly exemplary in the past." She tucks a lock of stray hair behind her ear and looks me in the eye. "You need to put up a good show, too, Katniss Everdeen."

"Gale's more vocal," I say lamely. "I'm supposed to be the shy female half of the star-crossed lovers."

Johanna shakes a finger at me, like an agitated mother at a naughty child. "That's an order. As one of the seniors, I have the authority to tell you this."

"A senior?" I question.

Johanna leans in close and whispers in my ear. Her breath fans across the side of my head, and the natural human warmth of it somehow chills me to the bone. "I'm one of the leaders of that, and you and Gale will be its face. Its symbol."

Winter has begun to fade. The snow softens and thins and I can see tiny new leaves, still small and all rolled up, start to grow on the barren, frost-slick trees. Temperatures begin to rise and before long, spring has arrived.

Spring is a beautiful season, second only to the crisp red-brown-gold beauty of autumn. It's a time when you feel the cold receding and see it happen before your eyes, and the breeze is perpetual and fresh and the sun warms your face, penetrating right down to the soul.

Gale and I really do go to the fence to sing to the mockingjays. In fact, we go further than that today – right into the heart of where they thrive, where their nests of twig and pine are abundant and dominate every second tree, where music rules and water flows, and that's where we stay, from the moment night falls to the moment the sun breaks the darkness's blinding stranglehold on the woods.

We wake in the warmth of the spring morning sun and eat a petite breakfast of soft tree bark and berries, washed down with the long-cold tea left over in the flask we brought last night.

His thumb flicks out to push a lock of hair away from my forehead when I comb out my braid and try to re-do it. "You should wear your hair down more often, Catnip." He wraps his arms around my waist and buries his face in my hair, his breath blowing like the pre-rainstorm breeze down my face, washing away the shadows below my eyes more effectively than any product of the Capitol will ever be able to. I close my eyes and enjoy it while it lasts.

"You know I can't," I say breathlessly, leaning closer into his soothing embrace. "That would be changing. We can't let them change us. Changing their so-called 'victors' is how they won every time for the past seventy-three years."

"We can change all we want," Gale reminds me. "It's just that they shouldn't be the reason for it."

The sun is rising higher up in the sky, and I hope its perpetual fire in the darkness of outer space, always burning, always there, will inspire the districts to continue to fight. Willpower is all we have now, and willpower is everything our oppressors don't have, and willpower is what we must use.

"We have to fight, Gale," I whisper on breaths short and ragged with bloody anticipation. "There's no other alternative."

"There never was," he answers. "Like Haymitch says, the Capitol instigated the rebellion on themselves. Granted us the ability to combust explosively. Even before the Dark Days, we were flammable."

"We caught fire once already," I say. "We can do it again."

"We've already done it."

"Then I hope they still have petroleum left to rain down on us."

Then, amid the fire of rebellion, love and the ascending sun, our lips meet.

His gentle yet firm hold on my waist and the small of my back moves with our heartbeats, spreading warmth through my veins from where they touch. Love fills me up and spills from my eyes and hands, twining my fingers in the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer. His lips move against mine, forming breathlessly whispered words, and tiny gusts of berry breath blows across my mouth.

"I love you."

And there's no other reasonable answer to that except it itself, so that is what I say, and that's what spreads smiles across both our faces.

"I love you too."

There are mockingjays in the trees around us, and they are just beginning to sing, giving voice to our impossibly flawless romance. I feel as if we are a part of them now. A permanent fixture in the woods that no one can take away.

We are like mockingjays in every way, and no one can deny us that.

The district is just stirring when we return to it. I see the coal miners leave their dusty houses, their uniforms hanging loosely off their skinny frames and their meagre helmets halfheartedly protecting them from the overwhelming dangers of the mines.

We visit our families. Prim goes to make tea, my mother puts water to boil for soup, and Hazelle gets updates on the rebellion from us. I tell her about Johanna and how, if there are actually designated seniors and ranks, the revolution must already have been planned long before we knew.

"Is she particularly good in any weapon?" Hazelle asks. "I can't remember her Games..."

"Axes," I answer immediately. "She got my attention by nearly hitting me with an axe. And she's the girl who acted as a weakling at first, then killed half of the Careers with a makeshift one."

"Did she tell you who's presiding over it all?"

"No."

"Finnick Odair came to me," Gale says. "He told me about Johanna going to talk to Katniss and how I was going to have to help her put on a better show for the districts. Get her to talk more. He said the victors from all the districts except 1 and 2 are leaders, and..."

"She said we're its symbol," I breathe.

"He said we're its symbol," Gale whispers at the same time.

"You are," Rory says, stepping into the house and hanging his coat up on the hook. "That's what Haymitch said to me and Vick when you returned from the arena. Said not to tell you yet, until you really find it in you to rebel. I figured now is the time."

Oh yes, now is definitely the time. They've irrigated a field of sparks with a river of petroleum, and now that river is going to break its banks.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Hello again :)

This chapter is extra long, due to the miraculous lack of writer's block lately (maybe it's the introduction of a new font. I'm weird in the sense that I have to have good fonts. Period.) But I also attribute it to the longer-than-usual holiday coming up in a few days and the mood that comes with it. :)

* * *

_Deep in the meadow_

We lie there now, nearly invisible in its tall, swaying grasses and blooming flowers.

_Under the willow_

There are no willows here, but her long, dark hair brushes my cheek like the leaves of that tree, only her locks are infinitely softer and so much nicer to the touch.

_Lay down your head and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when again they open, the sun will rise_

Panem is not the place to let your guard down, but here, in our secluded little paradise, we can, and we do. She plays with a fully-grown primrose blossom and I with her hair, and while she continues to sing, I close my eyes and rest.

* * *

He's asleep now. Dormant and safe (if only temporarily) in his cradle of wildflowers like a newborn baby, only he is so much bigger and has seen so much more. I lay down quietly next to him and watch as the sun makes its slow, steady passage across the sky, which turns purple, orange, gold and red in its wake, then grows gradually darker with its descent into the west. The birdsong stops and the crickets begin their chirping.

Diamonds begin to appear in the sky, which has become velvety and dark. There is no hunk of holey cheese in any shape tonight, because it's either the cheese or the diamonds – they can't be in the same place at once. Rory told Posy only last night that the big round piece in the sky was made from cow milk and she only had to reach for it to eat it.

"Y'see, Posy, that big circle up there's made out of holey cheese, like the kind Prim makes, except Prim's got green funguses all over hers and it ain't too good to eat. The one in the sky's better, and you just gotta put your hand up and you can get it."

Prim had laughed at the part about her mouldy produce and Hazelle had scolded Rory, telling him that the plural for 'fungus' was 'fungi', and how he shouldn't go around saying that Prim's cheese is mouldy when it isn't. Posy squealed with giggles and Gale and I'd smiled, thinking that it was wonderful that they got to keep their childish innocence, while we almost never did.

My lover stirs at my side now, slightly disoriented from long hours of slumber, eyelids heavy and beautiful silvery-grey eyes foggy with sleep.

"Wake me at nightfall," he murmurs, apparently oblivious to the fact that nightfall had passed us by a long time ago. "Hazelle will be worried about me."

"It's long past eight," I say, kissing his cheek delicately. "But let's spend the night here. And Hazelle won't be worrying about you. You're practically a grown man now."

"Still a boy," he corrects me. "I don't ever want to be any more than a boy, and I don't ever want you to be any more than a girl."

"We haven't been just a boy and a girl since they took us to the Capitol," I say quietly. "None of the others have been either."

"That's going to stop," he says with a hint of anger to his sleep-slurred voice. "We just have to start it for real."

But as he falls back asleep and I stare at his peaceful face, looking all young and _boyish_, I lose half my resolve. How can I agree to fighting when I might lose the man I love?

But some risks must be taken.

There just isn't any other way.

* * *

The day after, Gale comes down with a slight flu, so I hunt, trade and do the handing-out on my own. I drop by the town square to purchase some bread and maybe a few cake rolls. It'd be a nice treat for the sick young man sleeping at home.$

The bakery is run by a family of five, consisting of three boys and two parents, but today only the father and the youngest son, Peeta, are home.

Trading with the father is much easier than with the mother. He's gentle, a man of few words, and easygoing, while his wife is outspoken and has the ferocity of a lioness. I find the bakery much more welcoming when there's only him and Peeta, and easily swap a few squirrels for four good rolls, whereas with the wife such a trade would be impossible. I move to leave the store with satisfaction flush in my veins.

But then Peeta calls out my name.

"Kat...Miss Everdeen, may I speak with you for a moment?"

I turn around, surprised. Why would the baker's youngest son want to speak with me? We have exchanged few, if any, words, even though he and I have history...

I remember collapsing against the back of the bakery six years ago, stick-thin and starving. It was raining hard, pouring icy draughts of water down my face and soaking my clothes. I had scoured every trash can in the square after failing to trade some old baby clothes of Prim's in the town market, and eventually fell to my knees by the bakery, overwhelmed by the tastefully rich smell of fresh, high-quality bread. Bread that I was so close to, but could not eat, and would give anything to.

My family and I just needed to make it to May, then I would turn twelve and would be able to sign up for tesserae and drag home a cartful of grain and oil. But it was still early April, and I had already practically turned the district upside down in search of food, finding only two dried mint leaves in the back of my kitchen cupboard.

I used my last vestiges of strength to crawl to the rubbish bin and open the lid, hoping against hopes to find just a meagre half-loaf that might give my family and I a couple days' sustenance, but there wasn't a crumb left inside.

It had been wiped and emptied to the point where it shimmered in the rain.

Then the door flew open, admitting a middle-aged lady into her backyard. Her expression was obviously harsh, even through the sheets of vision-blurring rain, and she was screaming obscenities at me, ordering me to get out, or else she would call the Peacekeepers and have them take me and every other trash-digging rotten brat in the Seam to the community home. I had crawled over to a bare old apple tree in the yard and sat up against it, my knees drawn up to my chest to conserve as much warmth as possible in this terrible rainstorm, and hoping to die right there so that I would be relieved of that terrible burden. It was terribly selfish, but I was desperate.

Then I heard her shout at someone else. There was the sound of a blow, a physical one, and a sizzling pan hitting the floor. The door opened and Peeta emerged, carrying two burned loaves of bread. There was a lumpy red weal on his cheekbone as he faced the two pigs his family keeps in the yard.

Burned bread. How I yearned to eat the stalest of loaves, and here he went to throw two perfectly good ones to the mush-eating pigs. Hatred coursed through my veins, though weakened by starvation, but when he extended his hand and let the bread go, they tumbled to my feet instead.

Not one to question 'accidental' generosity, I scooped up the loaves – they burned, but I didn't care - and ran off home. Our eyes met – a clash between grey and blue – and he went back into the house.

I haven't been able to thank him yet, and this is better an opportunity than I ever expected to get, so I comply, following him to the back of the building. When we reach the pig pen, he stops, folding his arms over his chest nervously.

"What is it?" I ask anxiously, eager to get out my thank you and head home. "I have a sick man to tend to."

"I needed to tell you something," he says. "It's important, and I can't delay it much longer."

The solemn note in his voice keeps me from impatience and my eyes sweep carelessly over the surrounding area, avoiding his. The old, sparsely-leafed apple tree still stands, with its crooked branches and trunk. I leaned against it for support that evening. The pen, with the muddy pigs snuffling around inside. And that duo of trash cans.

"It started when we were five, lining up on the first day of school. You were wearing a red plaid dress and your hair was...was in two braids, and it had a red ribbon in it. Your father was the one who brought you to school." He takes a deep breath.

"During music class, our teacher Miss Batchel asked if anyone knew the valley song. You were the only one who raised your hand, and she stood you up on a high stool and had you sing it for everyone to hear. The birds..." He smiles wanly. I stare at him, apprehensive, curious and somewhat nostalgic. Where is he going with all this talk?

"The birds outside the window stopped singing. All of them. Especially the mockingjays. It was so silent, and from that moment on, I knew I..."

Silence now, as if his words were magic. Total silence, from in and out the bakery, and the only sounds are our accelerating heartbeats. What? What is so important and unnerving to say that puts a sheen of sweat on his face and twitches in his fingers?

Then he looks me in the eye and says, "Katniss Everdeen, I have been in love with you. I loved you since the day I heard you sing, and I will love you till the day I die."

* * *

There we go! Introducing Peeta Mellark, the baker's youngest, and a canon love triangle to 'Fire and Roses'. And don't worry, I'll try to get the next one up soon, because I myself want to know how I will script her reaction. :)


	5. Chapter 5

I stare.

And he stares back, a rueful smile tight on his lips.

"Nevermind," he tells me, giving my hand a comforting squeeze. "I never really expected anything from you, and I won't force you into something you hate."

But he turns and is about to leave, and I have to say something, but the word mangles as it goes off my tongue.

"Wait," I choke, lurching forward and grabbing a handful of his shirt. "Can we just be friends? Baker's youngest boy and his customer friend? Why did you even have to fall in love with me anyway?"

"We can be friends," he says. "But I won't stop loving you. I _can't_ stop loving you."

"Please just let me say thank you," I whisper. "For the bread."

"That's why you should, and you will, go with him and not me," Peeta points out. "I've given you two loaves of bread. He's given you heaps of berries and tonnes of meat, and everything he has, including his heart. You deserve him, not me."

He's right, in the sense that I will eventually stay with Gale.

But he's still wrong in the other sense.

"You gave me _life_," I say. "If not for you, I wouldn't have been around for Gale to do the same."

"But you still love him," Peeta says, unrelenting. "Look, Katniss, I just needed to let you know. You don't have to love me back. I just want you to be happy."

"You're not happy," I whisper.

Then I snap under the pressure.

"Why the hell did you have to fall in love with me?" I yell at him. "Why did you? Can't you love someone else?"

"No," he replies calmly.

My anger fades then, going out as quickly as it had arrived, and I begin berating myself instead. Why did I have to sing in music class? Why did I raise my hand when Miss Batchel asked about the valley song?

My shoulders stiffen, adamant that he would not, _shall_ not suffer because of me, when it would all be for nothing but pain in the end.

So I look him right in his sky-blue eyes and say, "Fall out of love with me."

Then I turn on my heel and run away.

* * *

I haven't seen Peeta Mellark since that fateful day a week ago.

But today, I have neither the misery nor the time to think of him or how he really should not fall in love with a girl like me, because the beautiful environment just can't be spoiled by negative thoughts.

Mid-spring had come full force in showers of sparkling rain, bouquets of kaleidoscopic blossoms, the humming of bees and the renewed melodies of the birds. Gale and I often spend our days and nights out in the woods. We'd stay in one place, and then move to another, and try not to think about the fact that we eventually have to return to our dusty definition of civilization.

The woods are where fire overtakes us, in both romance and rebellion. Romance would be when we kiss or embrace, rebellion would be when Gale screams obscenities at the Capitol, only to have his angry words fall onto the deaf yet keen ears of the wildlife around us.

We both wish they would fall in the hearts of our enemies, taking the forms of bullets and knives instead of mere sounds.

And of course, arrows. I can't ever forget arrows.

Now, we are on our way back after a night or two of bliss in the forest, clothes and hair damp from the light fog, smiles still on and still genuine after days of sun and laughter. A mockingjay, seemingly unfazed by the rocking movement of my gait, is perched on my shoulder, singing and whistling in my ear, and Gale is talking about Prim's birthday in the other. "You got Lady for her a year or two ago," he says. "How about a new dress for her? Hazelle can sew."

But under his cheerful tones lies a layer of dread, no matter how genuine his smile is, and I know that he knows what the dress would definitely end up being, and what it might go on to be. The happiness fades from my grin, leaving it dry and tight, and the mockingjay stops singing and flies away.

"Let's hope it won't follow her to the Capitol," I say, and his smile disappears, too.

"It'll be all right, Catnip," he tells me, pulling me closer and kissing the top of my head. I bury my face in his chest and try to find calm in the strong, steady beat of his heart just under my ear, but my teeth are still digging into my lip. "The Quarter Quell won't be that bad, Catnip. Promise."

"You can't even say that, you liar, not with everything we've done to the Capitol and how angry we've made them."

"They're bloodthirsty cowards, all of them," he mutters angrily, but he can't and won't shout. We're too close to the fence for that. "All they do, all day long, is drink our blood, revel in its spillage, plan how to make it nice and sweet for the audience and wonder how to use it to beautify themselves."

Indirectly, that's true.

Are they vampires?

"There are good ones, too," I say. "Like Cinna and Portia. Effie, I daresay."

"Maybe Effie," he concedes. "She's just dumb, like our preps. But Cinna and Portia are definitely good. They're angry at the Capitol, too, you know."

"I know."

By now, the fence has drawn closer, and such talk, in any volume, would be too dangerous. We duck silently through the rusty, torn wire and enter our district.

I hand out berries to young children on our way to the Victor's Village while Gale rambles on about everything from goats to trains, avoiding anti-Capitol talk and anything related to it, or patting children's heads and asking about school.

"Hazelle says there's mandatory programming tonight," I tell him when I've given away my last berry.

"Must be important," he says mildly. "Is it the Quarter Quell announcement? I thought it would be in winter. Your mother said that for the last one, the annoucement was in winter, but this time it seems to be late."

"I guess so. It can't be anything else."

We walk home in silence then. The Seam and town streets are empty of people, leaving only a few lonely souls on the pavement and a crowd in front of the television screens in the square – everyone with televisions must be inside for the programming. Far in the distance at the entrance of the town market, I see Peeta down the road, carrying sacks of flour on his shoulders. He hasn't seen me, but I have seen him and it brings back too-vivid memories of that terrible day.

I look up at the sky anxiously, hoping for an excuse to walk faster. The sun is setting, the sky a deep indigo. It must be eight. The programming would start at eight-thirty.

I take Gale's arm and pull him on faster, telling him that we would be late. He raises an eyebrow sceptically, but he doesn't question me and obligingly walks a little faster, probably thinking that I'd tell him when I'm ready. He's right. But only when I'm really ready.

The Victors' Village lies close ahead. We pass through the wrought-iron gate and under the arch, continuing on along clean-swept cobblestone pathways bordered with fresh-cropped grass, flowers and shrubs. Our families' house is aglow, golden light flooding the windowsills and spilling out onto the garden below. We can already hear the voices of the children, Vick's and Posy's rising in argumentative tones, followed by Hazelle's admonishment.

The door opens before we knock, and Rory lets us in. I give my families big hugs, and an especially tight one to my beloved Prim. This evening, her hair is down, and when she runs into my arms, it falls over her eyes. I laugh, sweeping it out of the way to kiss her forehead, but when she looks up at me, the expression on her face is far from happy.

I instantly kneel down, cold dread constricting my chest. What's wrong? I can't let anything get her down.

"What's wrong, Prim?" My eyes automatically search the room for her filthy cat, Buttercup, and I spot him by a potted plant. As healthy as can be. He's not the cause for her sadness.

"You know what," she whispers, leaning into my embrace. "You know why there's mandatory viewing tonight."

And then I do. Gale was right – tonight is the night of the Quarter Quell announcement, and we will soon find out how and why the tributes we will mentor will be picked.

"You'll be going away again in a month or two," Prim says. "And you'll be gone for a long time. I don't want you to go."

"We'll come back," I reassure her, but it's halfhearted and doesn't comfort anyone. I don't want us to go, either.

The atmosphere darkens considerably, and we all sit down on the sofa in front of the television and wait for the mandatory programming to start.

Within five minutes, the mixture of mundane snippets of anti-district propaganda is replaced with a lone young woman against a plain white background. She has long, heavily layered hair the colour of fresh red blood, is dressed in a crisp white blouse, blazer and skirt, and holds a microphone. She informs us that President Snow is about to announce the absolutely _lovely_ Hunger Games twist for the 3rd Quarter Quell, and that she bets we're all _extremely_ excited to know what it is.

Promptly, her image is replaced by that of President Snow's. He sports puffy lips, red and wet (as if it is coated in blood) and the trademark rose, whiter than snow and screaming _artificial perfection_ from the rounded petals, in carefully regular irregular shapes, to the straight dark stem, unwilted leaves and the strong scent that must fill the room where he stands. A young boy dressed in a similarly-coloured tuxedo stands next to him, holding in his arms a simple wooden box.

The president speaks smoothly, first announcing the reason for the mandatory programming, then revising the past Quells in an onerous voice loaded with malice and dark promises.

"On the first Quarter Quell, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, each district was made to hold an election and select the tribute who would represent it."

My stomach turns in disgust. They _always_ try to take away from us whatever little we have. Fifty years ago, they took our unity. After all, what family wouldn't hold a tremendous grudge against their neighbours for delivering their child to death's door?

"On the second Quarter Quell, as a reminder to the rebels that two of them died for each Capitol citizen, each district was made to send twice the number of tributes."

That time, they took our children again – just a lot more.

I realize that that was the year Haymitch won, and stupidly think that it would be great if the tributes from 12 win this year, too. Wouldn't that be good for the rebels? To show how even the poorest of the poor could survive the Capitol's game?

But now, my main concern is what the twist will be this year.

President Snow opens the lid of the box proffered by the little boy. Inside are tidy rows of yellowed manila envelopes, each of them boasting a red wax seal with the Capitol crest. Two in the front row are missing. He removes the next and breaks the seal, carefully extracting a single slip of thick, heavy paper.

"And now, the Third Quarter Quell," the president says.

"As a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes from each district will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

* * *

_A/N: Hello. I'm truly sorry it took a little long to put up this crappy chapter, but I'm afraid I'll be taking a break from this story awhile. My ideas just ran dry for this fic, and I'm headed to a 3D2N school camp the day after tomorrow, which will have rock climbing, and I'm terrified of rock climbing. _

_Urrgghh._

_Anyway, in anticipation of my ideas-running-dry thing, I put up a new GxK fic. It's not related to this or Shadows in any way, and it's called Eternal Infinity._

_- StarsAtNight_


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Hey again. Apologies for such a short chapter, but I could do no more and no better than this. I had a severe writer's block, especially after my camp._

_ Thanks anyway, to doodlebugchick, for wishing me fun at the camp, and To be a rebel and Ellenka for reviewing. I saw Ellenka's review just before I posted this, and I decided to edit the document and write a reply, which is: No, I did not survive the camp all right. I got homesick, but thankfully my good friend and I cried together. :( But thanks anyway :)._

_And now, on to this chapter. Hope you like it!_

* * *

CHAPTER SIX

**THE** door opens on its own, admitting me into the garden. The steps are slick with tiny droplets of water and a light drizzle falls through the air, a mere fog now, though the thick clouds overhead threaten to let loose a whole thunderstorm. Lightning flashes in their inky depths and thunder roars, but they don't deter me from my path.

I take deep lungfuls of the night air as I run. It's cold and freezes my heart on its way through my bloodstream, forbidding any emotions apart from terror, making it beat faster, forcing my legs in long strides across the flagstones, which are cold and wet underneath my bare feet. Sharp, broken bits of it lie scattered across the pathways and they cut bleeding holes on my soles, but I can't care less. All I need now is to get to the woods.

The district glitters with light. I see faces at the window, grey eyes wide with shock, as I cut across backyards and jump over fences and hedges, through the Seam and finally through the town.

Lights again. More lights actually - and do I see a pair of eyes, blue like the summer sky and misty with sad wet clouds, staring out of a glowing window?

But then I've gone, past the lights, and my legs and lungs are burning, and I scream, trapped in a hell of a district and left deranged and running in ragged loops by the buzzing, broken fence. Begging silently for access to my precious refuge. Begging for escape from the place where death is just a game. Begging for the demise of our malicious oppressors.

It's only when the strong arms grab me and the familiar chapped lips press to mine that my head clears enough to realize that for now, the Capitol is not the one to fight.

The one to fight is the boy who now carries me home, his arms wrapped around my body in a chaste embrace, his lips brushing my forehead to remind me that he's still here for me now, but he won't be there in the far (or near?) future.

I tuck my face into the curve of his neck and stifle my sobs in his shirt, returning both my intense love for him and the reminder at the same time.

* * *

**SUMMER** arrives with a flurry of tragic activity. A new Head Peacekeeper comes, and the square, once ringed with neat storefronts, now holds a gallows, a whipping post, and stockades, all of which see a total of thirty people within a week.

Not too long after, a sleek bullet train whizzes into the station, an annual change from the coal-bearing ones that come back and forth, back and forth. It admits a woman into the weary District 12, dressed in a puffy golden wig, shiny golden clothes and heels, with black gossamer wings hanging from her shoulder blades and flying with the wind, exposing white patches on the undersides. A stark contrast to the gold outfit, makeup and jewellery, but a welcome one.

The square is the same as it always is during the reaping – ringed by neat storefronts empty of humans, a temporary stage by the Justice Building, the two huge roped-off areas occupying its centre – but today, only three people stand in the roped-off areas.

Two of them are older than usual, but one is still young enough to be a part of this tragic and immensely inhumane tradition.

Effie does her best to keep up her usual chirpiness, but her smiles are tight and plastic, and her voice has taken on an edge that is somewhere between angry and pained. More pained than angry, though – I'm sure she hasn't ever had to reap the same tributes twice, and that must be taking its toll on her.

The introduction goes by in near-absolute silence. In fact, there's only the occasional rasp of the part-faulty speakers and microphone, and Effie's tremulous voice. There's little, if any, movement in our small audience. They are as still as stone.

When Effie calls my name, I mount the stage, stand at her side and simply gaze far in the distance, thinking of the hills, the valleys like dimples in the land, the silver ribbons of streams, and the lake my father brought me to, and how Gale and I could have gone there and built a new life in the heart of the wild. We could have taken our families with us. We could have taken Haymitch. We could have taken the goat Lady and even that stupid cat.

But we didn't, because we couldn't have taken Peeta, and I couldn't have left him behind.

And I really wish we could. Is it too late? Or can I still jump down the stage, grab Gale's hand and run? Call for Mother, Prim, Haymitch and the Hawthornes and anyone who cared to follow to come along?

Then Effie's calling Gale's name, and he's going up to stand beside me, and then she's introducing us and asking for applause, and then they don't give applause.

It's just one person at first, a grizzled old man with a straggly grey beard who was my father's unofficial mentor in the mines, who touches the three middle fingers of his left hand to his lips and raises them in our direction. Then it's his wife, and then it's their children, and then it's everyone who does it.

And now it's too late to run. Not when they've bade goodbye to us in the most ceremonial manner possible.

Not when they're saying, Goodbye to you, whom I love and I admire and I trust.

They trust in our integrity. How can we betray that trust now?

For us, the only way to win is to refuse to become the monster the Capitol wishes us to be. Running away and leaving Panem behind to suffer would mean becoming a monster worse than that of the Capitol.

No, we never could run away, and we never did change. I plant my feet firmly on the stage and tighten my grip on Gale's hand.

We're still just a boy and a girl after all – the hunter and the huntress in the woods, furtive phantoms in the dark, part of the many shadows that shift and blend with the wind.

Mockingjays in the trees.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Gosh, I'm so sorry it's been so long. I absolutely couldn't write a thing. Really sorry. Also, I had to come up with a name for Katniss's mother, and I eventually had to name her after a character from another book I read.

* * *

The sun has begun to set, and the sky is but a red expanse, interspersed only with pitiful orange blossoms, drowning in the sea of blood. I know I will be making such comparisons a lot in the weeks (maybe days) to come. No more skies red like strawberries. Only skies red like blood.

I do try to change that, though, and think of strawberries instead. Filling Madge's soft hands, in a patch of fresh green with wire mesh erected around it. Exchanged for a few gold coins that would buy our families some form of sustenance.

It doesn't work, but I tell myself that once I say goodbye to my families, it will all go away. In the end, the orange blossoms will stop drowning and start swimming, and they'll feast on the strawberries, living happily ever after.

But the Peacekeepers pull us away from the goodbye rooms, skirting the shaded veranda, and there waiting for us is the new Head, a weathered man in his fifties named Romulus Thread. "New procedure," he smirks.

"No!" I scream instantly, twisting around and fighting the men's grip. They've already taken so much away from us – they can't take this, too. "No, we get to say goodbye!" I strain toward the veranda, hoping for one last glimpse of my mother, of Prim, of Hazelle and the kids, but the Head promptly reaches out to slap me, and the Peacekeepers start to take us away.

I turn for a moment, and catch Gale's eye. His eyes are formidable, furious, and I can sense that familiar rage rising up inside him.

And before I can stop him, he throws himself headlong at Thread. They go down in a struggling tangle, just before the veranda. I try to reach them, to pry Gale away, but the others hold me back and I'm left thrashing around and screaming.

And finally, finally, they let me go.

I rush to Gale's side immediately, flinging my arms around him to shield him from any more blows that Thread might have left. My lover's face is shadowy and sore with bruises, but he's still conscious and strong. He glares daggers at Thread, his arms coming up and encircling my waist.

Never have I been happier to be thrown back into the Peacekeepers' custody.

* * *

We go into the train and, much to our surprise, find Madge standing by a cream-coloured sofa. There are bags under her eyes, and splotches of red tearstains on her face. She holds a small wooden box carefully out before her.

Her eyes flicker to Gale's bruised face the moment we step in, and a shadow of concern flits across their blue depths. She knows she can't ask, though, and quickly regains her composure.

"So sorry that you didn't get to say goodbye," she says quickly. "We tried to stop them, but it was the president's orders, and we couldn't refuse." She opens the box and removes first a pin, then a chain with a locket attached. She puts the pin on my dress and clasps the chain around Gale's neck.

Both are gold – real, solid gold – and upon closer inspection, I find that they have mockingjays set in the metal. The birds are crafted to be midflight, wings outstretched in full splendor, and are amazingly detailed. Their feathers flash in the light.

The whole Seam could live off these for a week.

"We have two minutes," she says brusquely. "No complaints about the pin and the necklace. They were my aunt's. She was a freedom fighter, and so are you."

"But we can't take these," I croak, trying to remove the pin, but Madge's fingers hold mine still. "Please. District 12 has little enough beauty as it is."

"Panem has little enough warriors as it is," she answers softly. "It is my privilege to make this sacrifice for you." She steps back, her gaze sweeping over us, and nods with approval. "Wings and a beak each and you would be real mockingjays. Do you know what you must do?" We nod. That much was made clear during the reaping.

"Then do it." Madge gives us each a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and then the doors slide open and she's taken away without so much as a word of goodbye.

* * *

Once the train starts moving, I lead Gale to my room and tend to his wounds.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly once I'm done, laying my head in his lap. "I shouldn't have done that. Now you're injured."

He leans down to kiss my forehead. "It was his fault for slapping you. And I guess it's mine, too, for choosing to attack him." His lips brush over mine. His breath fans, warm and light, across my skin, and I close my eyes. I have to enjoy it while it lasts.

Then his lips capture mine, and his hand slides to the back of my head, propping me up. I lock my arms around his neck and hold on to him, relishing the magic of the moment, and the flash of fire. The feel of his arms around me is an earthly heaven like no other, and all I can think is that_ I can't let him go._

"I love you," I breathe into his mouth. "So so much."

"Love you too," he whispers. His hand moves to my hair, tucking a stray strand behind my ear. "More than you can dream of." He breaks away with a smile, and rests his forehead against mine. One hand caresses my neck, playing with the braid. His hand stops for a while, and he seems to be looking at something, but then he continues. The bare skin above my collar tingles from his touch. "Guess I never could not love you. No matter how hard those bastards in the Capitol tried." He pulls me to his chest and lies down on the bed. "Sleep. It's late, and I doubt you're hungry."

He's right. The reaping, the three-fingered salute and the encounter with Thread have drained me of my appetite.

"You're right," I say. "I'm not."

So I tuck my face into his neck and try to fall asleep, relishing the feel of his fingers through my hair and wondering how it would feel like to fly, just once, without the weight of a nation on my wings and the breeze of freedom in my feathers.

Love, I realize then, was truly when we first fell in love.

* * *

I wake to the pale dawn glow streaming in through the glass windows. It hurts my eyes, and I roll over, seeking solace from the brightness and the reminder of our imminent demise. How many more times will I sit up with breath in my lungs? How many more times will I leave sleep with another day ahead of me?

Effie's down the hallway, calling for us to wake up and come to have breakfast. Haymitch is already up and about, surprisingly – I can hear the clink of liquor bottles and the gruff, heavy thud of his footsteps. Later, I decide, I can cry and pity myself as much as I please. Now, we must get to breakfast.

"Wake up," I say to Gale, shoving against his forearm, and his eyes flutter open. They're foggy with sleep. A small smile graces his lips, and he pulls me down to touch them to mine for a second that can't be shorter.

"Effie's calling us to breakfast," I say once I break away. I begin to search the drawers for a hairbrush, removing the band that keeps my plait.

He sits up and brushes off the front of his shirt, running his fingers through his hair. "I'll wait for you."

I rake the brush through my tangled locks and start to re-braid it. "Just a minute."

Suddenly, something drops from my hair and clatters to the floor. I bend down and pick it up, cupping it in my fingers. Clusters of tiny blue jewels wink and flash in the sunlight, adorning a black, metal hair barrette.

On the barrette is inscribed the name Elena Everdeen.

So this is what Gale was looking at last night. My heart is constricting, curling in on itself in a mixture of grief, gratitude and love. This is the only really nice thing my mother owned, and she had given it to me as a token of her love.

"Your mother's," Gale says gently, taking the barrette from my hand and securing it to my hair. "She told me about giving it to you the day before the reaping. Said that you must wear it, and keep a piece of them with you in the arena. So that it might give you strength when you need it."

"Did you tell her thank you for me?" I whisper. Tears are gathering at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. Victors don't cry. Mockingjays don't cry.

My fingers reach back and trace the graceful cursive of my mother's name. Elena Everdeen. Elena Everdeen.

"Of course I did."

Then Effie's voice rings out again, high and impatient, interrupting my misery. "Hello, tributes! Would you come down to breakfast?"

I run my fingers over the inscription one more time, then take Gale's hand and lead him down to the dining car.

* * *

Author's Note: I named Katniss's mother after the mother of the main character, Lina, from the awesome book Between Shades of Grey by Ruta Sepetys, because she too fell ill after her husband died. Please check that book out. It's really good.

Credits for the line 'Love, I realize, was truly when we first fell in love' go to the wonderful song My Heart Will Go On, by Celine Dion. I didn't copy the lyrics wholesale, but I pretty much got the gist of it from there.

Reviews are always welcome, especially with suggestions on how to improve my writing style. I'm thinking of writing a new story from an idea I got after rereading Mockingjay, and I really want that to be better than this, if it comes out. :)


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